Chapter One

Journalists are cunts through and
through.They pick through the wreckage
of human destruction for profit, vying for scoops and exclusives, not caring
who gets in the way.Even the
police.Earnshaw felt sorry his
charge.He wasn’t the typical killer.It didn’t even seem cold-blooded.He certainly wasn’t prepared for the media
scrum that had built up in the thirty-five minutes since the shooting.The more durable witnesses had stuck around
to see events unfold, filling in the journalists and news reporters on what
they had seen, elaborating their proximity to events and their heroics that had
never happened.They should be saving
the information for the police, not dishing it out to the nearest hack.But this was always the way.It was a free country, after all.

A
fat gothic girl, who looked tremendously out of place, was tearfully reliving
events to a national news reporter.Live
to the world, she was struggling to take in the happenings that had ruined her
night.“It was just a normal gig,” she
sobbed.“My friends asked me to come.I don’t even like Bright Eyes.But it was good – a good gig.Better than I expected.”She paused to wipe her nose. The newsreader
looked sympathetic, mindful of how much screen time she could waste on this
oversized mess.The more photogenic
eye-witnesses had been snapped up at least ten minutes earlier.

“And
what happened?”

“Well,”
another sniff, “it was this quiet song.All acoustic and heartbroken, you know, very sweet really.Stark, even.Then there was a bang.The guy
next to me fell to the floor.I thought
he was high or something.Then I felt
the blood on my cheek.”She wiped her
left cheek.There was no blood.“I looked down and he was in a bad way.You could see where the bullet had gone in,
and lots of blood.I think he died
straight away.Then someone knocked me
over, and I was face to face with him.”

“Shut
this bitch up,” a voice barked in Anna McIntyre’s ear.“She’s making this up – something to self
harm about later.”The voice was right,
and she quickly wrapped up the interview.

“Clearly
some confusion from those that were there,” she turned to camera, ignoring the
fat mess in black, who was still quivering with the shock.“As you can see behind me, the man believed
to be the gunman is being brought out by police.It has been reported that there was a
struggle, but police successfully disarmed him.”The camera zoomed in on the man with the coat
being placed on his head, concealed from the eager, prying eyes of the world,
as he was led to the police van by six armed Officers.Earnshaw flagged up the rear, sidelined the
moment the experts had moved in, leaving him to await an extremely severe
bollocking for going above and beyond the call of duty.Earnshaw wanted to escort him to the station
– the strange association with this killer unnerving, but also intriguing.He definitely had to be in the
interview.It was a murder, though, and
the only thing that would get him in there was promotion.

English, on the
other hand, couldn’t give a shit.She
was quite enjoying her latest appearance on the news, and for that moment was
grateful that she worked for the MET.The news didn’t care much for those outside of the M25 – these things
were so much more important when they happened in the capital.Secretly, she hoped to be called upon to make
a statement.She would call her mother
and tell her to set the video when she got a good opportunity.It was this bit she enjoyed the most – the
real policing.Not the shitty paperwork
or the interviewing, it was the action – the event.This was the stuff that people were
interested in – the gore, the antithesis of banal normality, the depths of
human behaviour.That was why she was
here.She was as interested as the rest
of the rubber-necking ambulance chasers, but her uniform permitted her presence
and placed her in the thick of the action.

She
and Earnshaw had now lost control of the situation, her seniors steaming in
late and attempting to put order in action.Blood had been spilt and the media was watching, so the Detectives and
the Inspectors were wheeled out and the bobbies were going to be left in the
cold.Earnshaw climbed into the van with
his charge and closed the door behind him, destroying any chance of him being
excluded from these events.He was
looking forward to talking to the accused – this wasn’t a revenge thing, he
could tell.

This
may be his only chance, though.There
was no way he should even be in that van, let alone see this case through.Once in a while, a scenario genuinely
intrigued a policeman – and for Earnshaw this was his.Had he applied himself in his three years in
the force, he may have had a chance, but he was destined to remain a PC
forever, and until now that had suited him fine.

The
van started up and the camera crews followed it exit out of sight.There would be identical crews awaiting their
arrival at Charing Cross police station, where
the next stage of the journey would commence – the interrogation.For now though, the media turned to camera
and summarised what had happened so far.English swiped an eyewitness away from a tabloid wannabe.

“Excuse
me, I was speaking to her,” Cameron Greaves protested.

“Get
fucked!” snarled English knowing that she should be keeping a cooler head. She
hated the junior reporters more than the scrotes she banged up on a daily
basis.They believed that they had as
much right to be there as the police did, and they had such over-zealous,
underhand practices of working that they were probably more dangerous than the
aforementioned crims.“And get behind
that barrier.”

“Bitch,”
Cameron muttered under his breath.He
didn’t get the chance to charm her like he had done so many other WPC’s.That was how he kept scooping Karl.Flash them a winning smile and look like you
mean it and you can get anything you want.It had worked so far.It was the
twenty-first century and as a man he was not afraid to sleep his way to the
top.She was probably a lesbian anyway,
he thought and climbed under the cordon the moment she turned her back.Through the dwindling throng, he saw Karl Martindale
barge through with sheer urgency.Cameron was pleased to him, knowing that he had arrived far too
late.This story was nearly over
already.The action had been recorded by
the junior, and this time it was going to be his by-line.

Martindale
looked flustered, and distinctly unimpressed.His ever-increasing mono-brow made him look sinister, whilst his puffed
out red cheeks heavily implied that he was an alcoholic.Cameron hoped that he would never turn out
like that.He imagined Martindale was
once as immaculately turned out as he was, all smart clothing and chiselled
haircuts, fresh as a daisy and oh-so beautiful.It was almost like a warning from the future.Affluence had widened his senior, made him
harsher, less keen - ripe for being other-thrown.It was all that time spent on his laptop on
his own, Cameron thought.Martindale was
never in the office or at the scene any more – he created his stories in
cyberspace, in between bouts of frantic masturbation over bestial
pornography.Whilst Karl’s back was
turned, young Cameron was getting noticed.He was the next big thing, after all.

“How
many witness statements have you got?” demanded Karl, preparing to be
disappointed at whatever Cameron said.He had to retain his self-importance.

“I’ve
managed to get eight eye-witnesses and a two word retort from a bobby,” he
informed him, knowing that it was a result.

“Could
do with more,” Karl snarled, looking unimpressed with the result.“There must have been more people.You could have done more to keep people here.Textbook error.”

Cameron
wanted to hit him.He could have said
anything and still have been dismissed for his actions.It made it easier to double-cross the fucker,
mind, and that was never a bad thing.

“Ignoring
the fact that I was stood right next to him when he pulled the trigger,”
Cameron called after him.It was
difficult not to look smug.Karl swung
around, but his junior was already trying to charm the irritated looking
WPC.She could see that he was a
charming sort of man, and it was those men she hated the most – mainly because
they were too fucking charming.

“I,
er, didn’t get that quote down before, I think I may have missed a few words,”
he said and chuckled a little.

“No,
it was just get fucked,” English put up her defences.

“Was
that a question or an order?” he persisted.

“It
was an ‘I don’t have time to be pissing about with over-keen, perma-tanned
graduates with notepads trying to impress their superiors by getting the scoop
on the back of a lost life, get fucked.’Some of us would like to live at a moral level higher than that of your
average sized rodent, whilst some of us are born to be journalists.I really hope there is a God and a judgement
day, and I’d want to see what happens to the press – especially smarmy little
shits like you.”

With
that English turned to walk away, but Cameron grabbed her arm.“You give me an official statement, and I’ll
give you one,” he said.

“You
arrogant prick!” she snorted.“I can
imagine lots of dumb tarts dropping their drawers for you the moment you click
your fingers, but-“

“I
meant a statement,” he cut in.“I was
there.”He waved his ticket stub in her
face as it reddened dramatically.She
pushed his hand out of the way and looked away from him.